


Lifeline

by context_please



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Prosthesis, angst everywhere, sorry my friends, when will I write anything but angst? never
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-05
Updated: 2016-08-05
Packaged: 2018-07-29 11:28:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7682740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/context_please/pseuds/context_please
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By the time Jesse McCree loses an arm, it’s nothing special.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lifeline

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so I'm going to admit, I am Overwatch trash. So much trash. This started out as a small musing on McCree's feelings after getting prosthetics and spiralled from there because McHanzo is ruining my life. 
> 
> Welp, I'm back from the dead to post this, so enjoy.

By the time Jesse McCree loses an arm, it’s nothing special.

Everyone in Overwatch has lost something: Lena, her independence from the curse strapped to her chest. Reinhardt’s eye. Symmetra’s arm. Zenyatta has lost limbs so many times McCree knows how to reassemble them himself. Reyes and Morrison don’t bear mentioning. He knows better than to open up that can of worms, even in his own head.

Overwatch is full of people that have lost something.

The air is cold. It’s winter in Hanamura, and snow is just beginning to dust the tops of the houses. The roofs stick out with those strange swirly things, topped by those square formations at the top that collect the snow like a baby’s cradle. McCree hasn’t seen snow since that awful winter in Washington: the same winter he fought for Overwatch’s survival. It’s been, well. It’s been entirely too long since then, and McCree isn’t keen on counting the years. He may not be as old as Morrison, Reyes, or Reinhardt, but damn if he feels that some times. Reinhardt still has the energy to thump around, swing that huge hammer, and yell with every breath. Morrison still takes off like a horse out of the gate.

McCree’s joints creak in comparison. Even standing out in the cold is making his knees stiff. His chaps are stiff, creaking as he shifts, leaning against the wall. Well, it’s less of a wall and more one of those strange red pillar things but that doesn’t matter so much, long as it holds his weight. His knees ache, right in the bone. If they could, his kneecaps would be trembling. The muscles in his thighs are stiff with too much exercise. He bends one leg to rest up on the pillar, stretching his hamstring. The ache creeps all the way up to his hip, and he slouches further. The cigar between his lips has fizzled out, and he fishes his lighter from his pocket, bringing it up to his face. The little spark of heat nearly singes his other hand as he shields the flame from the outside world. The cigar catches again.

McCree breathes in, the smoke swirling in his lungs. It tastes like relief.

He slouches further as he pulls the cigar from his lips and exhales. The smoke coils in the air around him, blessedly warm. He almost wishes he could have it back. He tips his hat down and pulls his serape tighter around his shoulders. It’s one of his old ones: dull red, barely holding together at the seams. No one looks twice at him, beyond the glances questioning his fashion choices. There are flakes of snow dotted over the fabric, seeping wetly into his left shoulder, but it doesn’t matter so much. Not when he’s still wearing his chest armour, the metal slightly too chilled to be comfortable. It makes every part of him cold, slowly. As if his bones are turning to ice from the outside in. His throat tickles as he exhales, but he doesn’t cough. He trained that urge out of himself years ago.

Jesse McCree hates the cold. Since that winter in Washington, he’s made every goddamn effort to stay away from anywhere remotely cold. He prefers the feel of the sun on his skin, the taste of smoke and dust in his mouth. The dryness of the air. Now, he can taste the moisture on his tongue. He’s not sure if his exhalations are smoke or just the warmth of his breath.

The worst part about the cold is the way it makes his arm itch.

No one had batted an eyelid when he lost it. Not really. Doctor Zeigler had apologized for not being able to help more, and he’d shaken it off with a ‘sure it’ll grow back eventually, right?’ She’d laughed, and whatever had been shaken loose inside his chest rattled, jarred by the simple acceptance.

Lena hadn’t been on the base at the time, and he’s always wondered what she would have said if she’d been there. If she would have seen his joking for the poor act it was. Wonders if she would have done nothing more than poke him in the ribs, crack an awful joke he’ll only half understand, and hug him tight. Wonders if anyone would have given a shit, really. If they ever did.

Morrison didn’t understand. At least not then. He only understood from what he’d seen of the team. In comparison to Genji’s entire cybernetic renovation, Jesse’s loss is barely noticeable.

Except it’s not.

He’d been left-handed, before all of this. Before he was forced to adapt, forced to look on the bright side. Before he was told that this wasn’t something that could ruin his life even as he felt the world crumbling down around him. It was bad enough losing his hand, without having to learn to be right-handed. He became generic, his handwriting sloppy. His better arm had always been his left, really, and he’s still an excellent shot with his right _if I do say so myself_ , but it’s not the same.

Nothing was ever going to be the same, when he joined Overwatch. He’s still not sure whether that’s a good thing.

Leaving Deadlock was the best decision he ever made. But joining Overwatch was what lead to the loss of his arm. _Always look on the bright side of life?_ The song had it wrong. _Everything has an equal and opposite reaction_.

To improve a life, one has to be destroyed.

Jesse McCree still thinks that way. Knows, with every ounce of his being, that no matter how happy he may be, he won’t have the happiness he hears about. The happiness he sees in movies and on the television. Not for him, a stupid cowboy from the middle of nowhere, USA.

His arm shudders with the cold. The air around his prosthetic tingles, and for the briefest moment his arm is there. He’s just Jesee McCree, Southern boy. Just a gunslinger, standing on a street. Before he started wishing for nothing more than to have his arm back. Before the sensation of a phantom limb didn’t haunt him like a morbid ghost of who he could have been.

Before the world crashed down around him. Before he outlived those he came to love, and never even told them he loved them. Before his own team tore itself apart.

His arm burns. The pain lances, sudden, up into his bicep. It’s like someone pulled the strings of his muscles too tight, and his arm locks in place.

Jesse’s cigar drops from his mouth. ‘Shit,’ he swears, low and vehement. It’s barely more than a croak, really. He can’t manage any more than that – the pain steals the breath straight from his lungs, blazing a trail into his shoulder. The muscle is aching like he’s been holding a weight in the air for five hours. His throat closes, instant, as if someone has flipped a switch. He’s not sure if the next breath gets past his mouth. Squeezing his eyes shut, Jesse McCree tries to wipe his head clear – better than all the muddlin’ going on up there. He almost succeeds.

A hand on his left bicep has him turning, skin set ablaze with pain. White flashes in his vision, white and steel and hot agony. The _shink_ of a sword, the slow slice of metal into his flesh. Screams. His own screams tearing his voice raw, leaving him silent for weeks. Begging, begging, _begging._ The _clunk_ and scrape as sword hit bone.

 _Fuck_. _Shit on a stick_. Vomit rises hot and thick in his throat, and he would have punched his attacker in the face and followed up with an impressive stream of projectile vomit, except –

‘McCree,’ Hanzo says.

That’s all it takes. All it takes for the energy to leave him, for him to swallow the sickness still lingering in his throat. His right hand shakes. Jesse disguises it by looping his fingers around his belt.

‘McCree,’ repeats Hanzo, tone flat as ever.

Jesse manages to muster up a smile, tipping his hat in greeting. ‘Howdy, partner.’

Hanzo’s eyes narrow, as if he were inspecting an ant he found on his supper. ‘Your watch ended an hour ago.’

 _Shit_. McCree shrugs nonchalantly. ‘No harm enjoin’ some air,’ he says, wishing he could tap the ash from his cigar. It’s smoking pathetically at his feet.

Hanzo practically _huffs_ at him, turning around. McCree trails after him, boots crunching in the snow. ‘What you gettin’ all huffy ‘bout?’ he asks, hurrying to keep up. The cold has made him stiff. The pain has made him anxious. Hanzo is frustrating him, but that’s par for the course.

Hanzo doesn’t even turn around, just says, ‘come,’ with the air of someone who expects to be followed.

And damn if Jesse doesn’t obey him, trailing Hanzo all the way back to their hotel room. Hanzo ceases all semblance of courtesy, practically shoving Jesse through the door and pushing him onto the bed. He doesn’t bother turning on the light, darkness playing soft and harsh on his face. The window is all that illuminates him, turning his features cold save for a flash of dark eyes that rips the breath straight from Jesse’s sternum. McCree thinks when Hanzo was a child, he traded his words for physicality. Traded speech – a very important factor in human social interaction – for round, powerful shoulders and a back that fills Jesse’s dreams. Hanzo is so sculpted he may as well be made of marble – perfect and strong and so beautiful. Jesse doesn’t really say anything as Hanzo palms around in the top drawer. He watches the muscles of his back flex, the ink spill over his shoulder. Doesn’t say anything as the streetlight throws him in to sharp relief, shading the slope of his neck. Not until a thought occurs to him. ‘Much as I’m flattered, darlin’, don’t know if I can hold it up tonight, least not to your standards.’

Hanzo pauses, raises an eyebrow at him, before holding up a tub of muscle relaxant.

Jesse laughs sheepishly, flexing his prosthetic hand. ‘Spose you were watchin’ me on the street.’

‘It is hard not to notice you,’ Hanzo retorts, coming to sit on the bed. He lathers a heap of cream onto his hands, reaches for Jesse with an air of imperial importance.

When his fingers touch Jesse’s skin, he is gentle. So completely attentive, keeping his touches light over the worst of the scarring. The cream is cool over his shattered nerves, ruined muscles. The prosthetic doesn’t come off – it’s wired into his elbow, courtesy of a much less experienced Mercy. It probably needs replacement, but he can’t bring himself to say anything about it. Can’t admit aloud that his control over his own hand is slipping. That his fingers have seized more than a few times in the past month, and the sensors seem to be malfunctioning. That he hooks his hand through his belt to disguise the freezing of his joints. To distract himself from the sudden lack of sensation and reign in an object that feels like it isn’t there. Hanzo’s fingers smooth cool cream over the deep buzz in his bicep, trailing over the scarring on his skin. The white lines are barely visible in the low light, and Hanzo looks up, catching Jesse’s eye. His cheekbones are so much sharper in this light – sharper than the spear of pain running the length of Jesse’s arm. Jesse brings his right hand to his mouth, gathers the leather between his teeth, pulls off his glove. Hanzo’s fingers are still working over his bicep, and it’s like his skin has been covered in sweet relief. As if he’s floating in cool, crystal-clear waters in the middle of nowhere, staring up at the sky. Jesse can’t keep the smile from his lips, can’t stop the little squeeze of his ribs. Hanzo’s skin is silk on his hand, sliding on his calloused fingers as McCree cups his cheek. Hanzo raises an eyebrow at him but doesn’t pull away.

Jesse’s nerve endings are tingling, but not in a bad way. Not anymore.

Jesse hums. ‘That’s good,’ he drawls, slow and luxuriant. ‘But this would be better.’

Hanzo doesn’t look surprised when Jesse hauls him in for a kiss, but then, Jesse can never surprise him any more.

When they break apart, the corner of Hanzo’s lips lift in that secretive little smile, just for Jesse. He pinches Jesse’s leg to make them even.


End file.
